


A Song In The Long Night

by Veeebles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Everyone banding together before the battle, Everyone gathering before the battle, F/M, Sandor is in love, Sansa is a true Queen, Sansa singing, Wholesome, Winterfell holding strong, a remake of the Jenny of Oldstones scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-02-04 08:51:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18601156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veeebles/pseuds/Veeebles
Summary: Arya ceased her task, putting her stone away into a pouch and rubbed her blade with an oiled cloth before sheathing it by her side. She leaned back against her sister’s skirts and blew out a sigh.“Sing for us, Sansa.”If the room had been silent before, it was like death now. Sandor’s stomach thrilled a little at the thought of hearing the Little bird sing again and he glanced around the room to see most eyes upon the sister pair.Sansa glanced around her, a strand of auburn hair falling across her face and Sandor found the muscles of his arm twitch to pull it back into its place. They waited for her reply.“I hardly think this the time -”“Nonsense, it’s the perfect time,” Tyrion said





	A Song In The Long Night

**Author's Note:**

> I loved Podrick singing this song ut i listened to Florence singing this and this popped into my head.   
> It was a first for me to write the rage less Sandor. I hope i did him justice. This is also my imagining of a SanSan reunion or interaction this season since we have so far been robed of it.  
> I also wanted to write a scene with all the core characters fighting for Winterfell being together and bonding in the cause and the rue of Sansa as Lady of Winterfell.   
> Sansa and Sandor are my favourite characters and i can write books of imagines scenes with them. I have plenty more to come!  
> Please tell me what you think!  
> Vee

The moon was high in the sky when Winterfell fell silent.

The wind didn’t blow, the leaves of the Godswood didn’t rustle, even the horses were silent in their stalls, armed and ready for battle like their riders. The place seemed as if the war had already come, wiping out all the people and leaving the place deserted. The snow lay smooth upon the ground, a ghost place.

Sandor shuffled quietly along the torch lit corridors, glancing to the Unsullied, Dothraki, Wildlings and Northern bannermen sitting around their tents beyond the castle’s walls, lamenting on the battle to come. He ducked under a doorway and descended the winding staircase, his footsteps thudding and echoing against the curving walls.

When he reached the heavy oak doors of the great hall of the keep, he paused. There was no sound from beyond either, it sent a shiver down his spin to imagine the room empty of life, like the Walkers had come and gone here too.

He shook the feeling off and pushed the door open gently, sliding in his large frame between the gap. Something akin to relief feathered through his chest to see the many heads within, all familiar faces, some turning to look at him, most remaining silent and meditated.

The Little Bird sat in her perch; a humbly carved wooden armchair some ways before the fire, angled to face the door he had just come from. She held something in her lap and she raised her head from it to catch his eyes as he moved quietly further into the room. She smiled softly and he inclined his head in a small nod. She looked to a chair near her and it budded something in his chest to realise she had possibly reserved the place for him, a ways away from the fire, against the wall, close enough to her yet not in the middle of the present company.

He settled himself into the seat, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. He leaned back against the wall, warm from the springs that run through it like blood. He was partly in shadow, enough to shroud the scars of his face and he settled back in his place, allowing his shadowed eyes to watch her. She had her head bent back to the thing in her lap and he nearly snorted out loud when he realised it was a piece of fabric she was sewing. The little girl from King’s Landing was still in there somewhere, still the accomplished little Lady. Arya sat at Sansa’s feet, sharpening Needle with a whetstone, the rhythmic slide of the stone on the blade cutting through the silence, joining the crackle of the fire.

He accepted an offered flagon of wine from Podrick as he passed by, joining Davos, Varys and Tyrion who sat close to the fire in old and worn chairs, passing the flagon of wine between them.

Brienne and Jamie sat across from one another at one of the long tables, the woman’s fingers running unconsciously over his faux hand. Jamie watched her silently, eyes trained on the movement of her fingers across the dull gold. The Tarlly man and his woman sat near them, the girl holding a bairn* in her arms, rocking him gently from side to side, resting her head against the dark haired man’s shoulder as he leafed through a book in his lap.

Bran sat in his wheeled chair, eyes staring off into the distance as if in sleep, seeing something beyond them. Sandor thought back to the voice in the flames and wondered if it was something similar that danced around before the boy’s mind’s eyes. The Greyjoy and the blacksmith boy sat beside him on a bench, back to the table, hands idyll whittling away at a small piece of wood, eyes darting to the Wolf-Bitch every so often, foot sliding to and fro against the stone floor with the slide and scrape of her stone on the blade.

Tormund stood to the back of the hall, drinking deep from his horn, nudging his booted foot against Jon’s every so often who sat brooding in a chair beside him, buried in his furs. His Direwolf lay curled at his feet, eyes open and ears pricked up, twitching every now and then at the noise of Arya’s blade and at things Sandor could not hear.

The Dragon Queen was absent, with her own folk most like. Sandor didn’t like her much. From what he had seen of her, she was head strong and proud, demanding respect in a place that believed in the earning of such a thing. He liked these Northerners, he liked the honestly, no games to be played here. He liked that they all spoke nothing but praise of their Lady Sansa, that she seemed to be held in each of their hearts and so was pledged their allegiance. The little bird had grown into a better ruler than any of them, Sandor mused as he drank deep into his wine. She ruled strong as iron and soft as snow. Each of her people be them the present company or the small people of the Winter Town were treated as family.

She reminded him of her Father; wise, just, honourable and strong. But she was clever, clever than any of them.

His eyes strayed to her once more and he allowed himself to study her profile. Her head was bent into her chest as she worked at her needle, her skin cast soft in the light of the fire, the red of her hair shining like it were a flame itself. He had once upon a time watched her so in Kingslanding. She would sit in the gardens, surrounded by flowers that couldn’t match her beauty, her hair shining in the sun, her skin looking soft as silk as her hands worked at whatever dress she was making. He would watch by Joffrey’s side as she dipped her needle into the fabric, pulling it out taught then back again, a small crease on her brow as she worked. He had often wondered if she thought of nothing more than the thread and the silk. Mayhaps that was a time for her to forget where she was, to lose herself in her task and know nothing of the prison around her.

Arya ceased her task, putting her stone away into a pouch and rubbed her blade with an oiled cloth before sheathing it by her side. She leaned back against her sister’s skirts and blew out a sigh.

“Sing for us, Sansa.”

If the room had been silent before, it was like death now. Sandor’s stomach thrilled a little at the thought of hearing the Little bird sing again and he glanced around the room to see most eyes upon the sister pair.

Sansa glanced around her, a strand of auburn hair falling across her face and Sandor found the muscles of his arm twitch to pull it back into its place. They waited for her reply.

“I hardly think this the time -”

“Nonsense, it’s the perfect time,” Tyrion said slowly, fingers thumbing at the rim of his mug. Sansa looked back at him and he smiled kindly, “sing for us, if you please my lady, I daresay we will narry hear anything sweeter before we meet our ends.”

A chill went through the room at his honest words and Sansa turned back to her sewing and seemed like she would deny the request. Sandor slumped lower in his chair, feeling the sting of bitter disappointment in his gut before a sound like the call of a morning bird fill the space.

_“High in the halls of the Kings who are gone.”_

She kept her sewing, hiding her face a little in the curtain of her long hair but she sat straighter and sang louder. Her voice pretty as she, filled the silence of the hall, resounding against the high arches, echoing like the Gods themselves were singing with her.

 

 _“_ _Jenny would dance with her ghosts.”_

Sandor felt a chill come over his skin, turning to goose flesh and his chest bubbles in warmth at the sound so sweet. He hadn’t known how much he had longed for this sound until it graced his ears, like a memory of someone he had loved dearly coming back to him after so long.

_“The ones she had lost and the ones she had found.”_

Her fingers ceased their sewing, the room was as motionless as the stone statues in the crypts bellow, enraptured like pilgrims at an altar, all heads turned to watch the Lady of Winterfell sing.

_“And the ones who had loved her the most.”_

Sandor watched her, enraptured, watched her mouth form the words, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling steadily as she breathed the words out. Never had a song sounded so sweet, he knew this moment would stay with him forever, follow him into the battle, cradled in his heart. Her voice would ring in his ears, dance through his mind as he cut his way through the Walkers, fuelled by the knowledge that it was she he would be fighting for.

  
_“The ones who’d been gone for so very long, she couldn’t remember their names.”_

She sang with emotion and he wondered if she thought of her family as she sang. Of her Lord Father, her Lady Mother, her fallen King brother, the youngest son of the Starks that he heard had fallen at the hand of the Bolton bastard before reuniting with them. He wondered if she thought of the Targaryen who had fallen for the common girl the song had first been written for. Some dark part of him soured at the thought. Highborn and common, a love never to be.

 

_“They spun her around on the damp old stones, spun away all her sorrow and pain.”_

He thought of the Bolton bastard that had died by her hand. He longed to reverse time and be the one to watch the light die from his eyes. The Hound he had long since buried roared like a lion in his chest, wanting to tear the flesh from the bastard’s bones in her name. He longed to exact his own revenge on the man who had stolen the Little Bird’s virtue.

_“And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave.”_

Some gentler part of him, the part that he had learned to nurse. The gentle in him she told him she used to pray for, when they lived separate lives, know knowing where each were. That part of him that he tried to work like his muscles in the training yard yearned for an end to her sorrow. He yearned for her to know nothing but happiness, to find it in this bleak winter. He wanted to give her the life she had wanted, even if that life had no trace of him in it. She may have grown into a strong woman, needing no man by her side. He was proud of her for that. Admired her for it. To be so strong that she was her own person now. But still, because he had known that little girl with dreams in her head and songs in her heart, he wanted her to find the prince she had longed for.

 

_“She never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave.”_

She was a Queen in his eyes. The only Monarch he could ever follow. The oaths that he had rejected his whole life burned in his chest. He had never sworn himself to anyone. Not to the King’s Guard. Not to the idiot King Joffrey. Not to the White Cloaks or the kingdom. He didn’t believe in the oaths. He saw corruption in them all. Why should he swear himself to a lie? But to her, he could swear himself. He would die for her. He never lied to her. The words of the oath bubbled in his chest, clawed up his throat, clamoured over his tongue and threatened to pry his lips apart and if he had more wine in his gut he would have surged forwards, fell at her feat and sworn his sword to her. He would swear his very life to her if he wouldn’t feel like such a fool for doing so.

_“Never wanted to leave.”_

Silence rained once more and all head were turned to watch her as she sat as if in prayer, eyes still closed, tears glistening across her cheeks light by the fire. Her sister sat at her feet, looking up at her like Sandor’s sister used to look at him when he defended her from their brother, like he was the most important thing to her in all the world.

The spell was finally broken by the sounding of the Horns outside and everyone straighted in their seats as if coming out of a deep sleep. Sandor’s gut clenched at the sound and the call of War set his fire aflame, spiking adrenaline in his veins.

Movement erupted all around. Wildling, Warrior, Dwarf, Woman and Man surged to their feet alike. All eyes upon the Lady of Winterfell.

She rose to her feet, tears still staining her cheeks and she stood, regarding them all with wisdom beyond her years, Here stood a ruler who knew what death was. Knew its terrible cut and how it would affect everyone in the room and beyond. She looked at each of them with all the sorrow in the world, acknowledging their sacrifices and honouring them for it. Sandor felt a surge of pride in his chest that he might be fighting for this Queen in the North.

She nodded to them, each person turning to the doors, weapons took up, the fire of War in their veins, ready to fight for the cause, a cause they each believed in more than ever.

Sandor was the last to leave, Axe in hand he paused at the door, turning back to Sansa once more.

She came forwards, holding her sewing in hand and held it out to him. He looked down at it like it were a bird with a broken wing.

It was a scrap of silk cloth, the yellow of his house, the three dogs sewn with such care and detail it pulled at his heart. She pressed it into his palm and met his gaze, fresh tears making her eyes shine, matching those that blurred his vision.

 _Come back to me_ , her looked seemed to say and he swore he could hear her whispering it in his mind as clear as the voice that had spoken to him in the flames.

_Come back to me._

He nodded to her once, his Little Bird, his Queen, holding her favour tight in his palm and turned to leave, tucking it into his breast plate, beneath his leather and chainmail, against the skin above his heart. He squared his shoulders and gripped his axe in his hand and followed the rest out the door and to War.


End file.
